Hamlet (review)

Chicago Shakespeare Theatre has in recent years augmented its reliably lucid and competently produced offerings with a stunning array of world-class imported productions at its Navy Pier location. Recent examples have included Peter Brook's radical edit of Hamlet, Mark Rylance's "original practices" Twelfth Night, and, in the fall of 2006, an all-male Russian Twelfth Night from Cheek By Jowl director Declan Donnellan and designer Nick Ormerod. If such treasures were not enough, CST's Artistic Director Barbara Gaines also has a discerning eye and a persuasive way when it comes to wooing top-flight directorial talent; over the years, she has brought in such artists as Michael Langham, Michael Bogdanov, and most recently Terry Hands to work their magic with the Chicago casting pool. Hands, a consummate professional if ever there was one, ran the Royal Shakespeare Company for twenty-five years, and now runs a theatre in Wales. Word has it that after Gaines spotted the Canadian actor Ben Carlson (a regular at the Shaw Festival) as a potential Hamlet, Hands concurred and proceeded to assemble the rest of his cast from Chicago talent.

In addition to handling the directing chores, Hands also designed the lighting. The result was a treat for those who prefer their theatre spare, elegant, and deeply considered. This is the Hamlet I wish I'd seen as a boy: a careful realization of the text that was full of ideas without imposing an overbearing directorial concept onto the play. Hands's treatment starkly contrasted with Robert Falls's corrosive and disturbing King Lear, which ran concurrently at the nearby Goodman Theatre. Falls added outlandish sex and violence to a play that already has plenty of both, and nearly eclipsed his central character in a lavish and busy modern setting. Hands, by contrast, directed a lean Hamlet of exceptional acuity and restless impatience; Carlson took a fervently intellectual and urgently energetic approach to the role. The production barreled through in under three hours, yet did so with remarkable clarity. Set and costume designer Mark Bailey played ably with an alternating pattern of black and white, with a mid-play shock of grey and red, offering visual equivalents for Hands's moral vision of the play.

The opening scene quickly established Hands's powerful way with a bare three-quarter thrust and a lighting plot: Bernardo, Marcellus et. al. gazed directly downstage at a non-existent apparition, drawing powerfully upon the spectators' imaginations. This made the subsequent appearance of the ghost—armored and gargantuan—that much more striking. (My students, though, giggled that the elder Hamlet looked more like one of Monty Python's "Knights Who Say Ni" than an avenging ghost). The second scene of act one established the monochromatic element of Hands and Bailey's palette: Barbara Robertson as Gertrude and Bruce Young as Claudius appeared resplendent and celebratory in white against the ebony gloss of the stage. They were all over each other; clearly this was not a new relationship. Hands implicitly suggested a prior familiarity and attraction; this Gertrude may even be complicit. Robertson, with her striking red hair and captivating smile, was alluring and overtly attracted to Bruce Young's hulking Claudius. Young's performance, however, was marred by a bludgeoning, monotonous delivery; he conveyed minimal understanding of the language.

The case with Ben Carlson's Hamlet was entirely the opposite: he spoke his lines—including the major soliloquies—at rapid-fire pace, but with galvanizing lucidity. His relentless speed may have been difficult to follow for those not familiar with the text, but it is hard to imagine the soliloquies delivered with greater understanding. Mike...